


the devil hit his second stride

by orphan_account



Series: steady now, breathe (febuwhump 2021) [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Abused Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Abused Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Gets a Hug, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, BAMF Deceit | Janus Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Knives, Protective Deceit | Janus Sanders, Stabbing, Sympathetic Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: febuwhump day 1: mind control"Bet if Deceit saw you like this, he'd join right in," Hubris says. "He won't take pity on you forever, you know. He doesn't care about the rest of us—why would he care about you? You're a nuisance at best. Adisease."Virgil doesn't flinch at that.He doesn't.(And Hubris is wrong, anyway—until he isn't.)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders
Series: steady now, breathe (febuwhump 2021) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139798
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	the devil hit his second stride

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [spider eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946272) by [Odaigahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara). 



> good afternoon... today begins my headfirst dive into writing for the sanders sides fandom!! 
> 
> prompt numero uno is mind control, and it takes place pre-accepting anxiety 
> 
> title is from dermot kennedy's "lost," a beautifully tragic song with lyrics that shake me to the core 
> 
> also, **check the tags for warnings, babes! heed them!!** emphasis on the torture & graphic violence bit. there will be comfort, bc i can't write a sad ending to save my life, but the hurt is pretty rough. not all of the prompt fills will be this bad lol

. 

. 

. 

Malice is bad enough, but his friends make everything so much worse. 

It's Hubris, this time. In the corner. Watching. If he's here, Malice must have a reason. A plan. Which means this is going to get worse, which Virgil is having trouble thinking about. 

Virgil's sick of this. He has  _ work _ to do, conversations to ruminate over, little mistakes to analyze (or "overthink," as Janus would put it) so he can make sure Thomas never makes any of them ever again. He has all of Roman's ridiculousness to counter, to pull back against, so Thomas doesn't go gallivanting off into the sunset in the name of some half-baked adventure. Roman would absolutely do that. And then Thomas would die a horrible death. And the damn Prince loves to talk shit about Anxiety, but where would they all be without him, huh? Virgil is  _ important _ and he has  _ stuff to do _ and he's  _ not doing it.  _

Because he's chained to a wall. 

Crying. 

Malice loves to make him scream, but he might like tears even better. This big smile creeps across his face when he gets Virgil to cry—grinning and giggling like it's  _ fun.  _

The knife slices further into his forearm, tracing another letter. Virgil sobs. 

"Oh, Anxiety," Malice croons, cupping his cheek. Virgil jerks away, but he can't exactly go anywhere. Malice snickers. 

"Poor little thing," he says. "Does it  _ hurt, _ Anxiety? Does it?" 

Another cut, deepening the first. He sobs again. 

"Halfway there, now," Malice says. "M, A, L." 

Hubris is smiling, too. 

Mal keeps cutting. Virgil wishes he could die. He'd reform in a few days, safe in his room, and he'd cocoon himself in blankets and pretend this didn't happen. Janus would taste the lie but leave him be. He'd be alone, blessedly so. 

But Malice won't kill him till he's good and done. 

Then again—maybe Malice won't kill him at all, this time. Maybe he'll let Virgil go, unwilling to undo his handiwork. If Virgil dies, after all, the scars won't stay. 

(At least, the scars have never stayed before. Virgil dies... a lot, and he always wakes up a blank slate. Even still a new fear sparks bright in his mind. 

Just because they've never stayed before doesn't they never will. 

Doesn't mean they won't this time.) 

Blood runs warm and slick down his left arm. Soaks into his hair, dries against his bare shoulders. His wrists are chained above his head, so he couldn't see Mal's work even if he wanted to. 

The rest of his body's sliced up pretty good, too. Virgil has been in here for hours now, and he's bleeding everywhere, legs and torso scored with dozens of cuts. None are half as bad as his arm. The letters are deep and deliberate, each traced over and over and over again before he moves onto the next. 

"I should really move it along," Malice says with a pout. "I'm sure Hubris is getting impatient, after all. We've yet to begin the  _ real _ fun." 

Virgil really, really hates when Mal says things like that. 

At last he pulls away, tosses the knife to the side. Virgil's relief is drowned out by dread; Malice promised worse, and judging by his giddy smile— 

Wait, shit. Shit, he's not done— 

Mal reaches up and digs his nails deep into the first cut, forcing a cry from Virgil's throat. He drags his fingers through the wound, tracing the name he carved into Virgil's skin, and Virgil chokes on the pain, slamming his head back against the wall. 

"Hubris," Malice calls, pulling his fingers away, and the other side rises, contempt glittering in his eyes. Virgil gasps for breath, blinking spots from his vision. "Have a little fun with Anx here. I'm gonna see what's taking our...  _ friend _ so long." 

_ Our friend. _ Virgil is guessing that it's Wrath, and that Mal's only being vague cause he knows it'll mess with him. Then again, if he did have some terrible surprise guest, he wouldn't want to spoil it. So Virgil really doesn't know what to think— 

And in the next moment he's not thinking anything at all, because Hubris has the knife and it's ripping straight down his chest. 

Virgil screams. 

"So impatient," Malice says, rolling his eyes, and then he's gone. Hubris smiles a vicious smile. He loves control; that's his big thing. Loves to have somebody pinned, total power over their pain, and (courtesy of Malice) that somebody is usually Virgil. 

"Piece of shit," Hubris says. "You aren't worth anything. Not to Mal, not to me, not to Thomas. Not even to your favorite old buddy  _ Deceit."  _

Okay, that one stings a little, even though—even though Virgil knows it's kind of true. 

Hubris touches the knife to Virgil's skin again, and Virgil cringes back against the wall.  _ Breathe, just breathe, you'll be okay you'll be—  _

He rips it down, another wide, bleeding gash a few inches to the left of the first. Another scream tears out of Virgil's throat. 

"Bet if Deceit saw you like this, he'd join right in," Hubris says. "He won't take pity on you forever, you know. He doesn't care about the rest of us—why would he care about you? You're a nuisance at best. A  _ disease." _

Virgil doesn't flinch at that. He  _ doesn't.  _

"Fuck off," he bites out instead. 

Hubris's face twists into a snarl, and he raises the knife again, cuts another gash—horizontal this time, straight through the first two— 

Oh. 

Virgil's stomach rolls as he realizes. 

"There we are," Hubris breathes, a smile spreading across his face. He steps back, admiring the bloody "H" that covers Virgil's torso. "Maybe this'll teach you a little respect, hmm? So you know who owns you?" 

"Fuck off," Virgil says again, but the last word breaks into a sob, and Hubris smiles wider. 

A few bloody gashes later, the door creaks open. Malice is back. 

"Having fun, I hope," he says. He steps in front of Virgil, looks him up and down. Nods. "Nice work." 

Virgil feels less like a person than he ever has. 

Malice stretches, yawns. Takes the knife from Hubris and twirls it. So casual, like he's having a dinner party and not literally torturing someone. "Our friend should be here any moment," he says. "Took a little... ah, convincing, but he'll be here." 

Ah, great. Cool. That does wonders for Virgil's nerves. 

Sure enough, just a minute or two later, the door opens again, and another figure steps in, and—it's Wrath. Of course it's Wrath. Virgil expected Wrath, but he still has to fight to keep his breathing steady, because he's hurt already, yeah, but the way Wrath hurts him is different and he doesn't think he can handle that right now. 

But—wait a second. 

No. It isn't just Wrath. He's holding someone—half-dragging him from the look of it— _ took a little convincing, _ Malice had said. Wrath and his prisoner step into the light, and the breath jumps out of Virgil's lungs and he can't get it back, because that's— 

That's Janus. 

"Oh, Deceit," says Malice, with surprise that must be false. 

Janus jerks against Wrath's hold. He's stronger than Wrath in many ways—he has to be, to do his job—but Wrath has more physical prowess than perhaps anyone but Remus. Janus isn't getting away unless Wrath wants him to. 

"How kind of you to join us," Malice says, sickly sweet. "A little late, but I'm glad you're here. After all, you're a bit of a major player in tonight's entertainment." 

"What an  _ honor," _ Janus drawls. "As you can see, I'm just  _ tickled." _

"Oh, good!" Malice claps his hands, delighted, which. Fucking creepy. Acting like a child. He gestures to Virgil, and Janus follows the motion, turns to look, and maybe—maybe Virgil is imagining the way Janus stops breathing. 

Or maybe not. "What the hell," Janus hisses. 

"Oh, don't you like it?" Malice asks, words coated in innocent disappointment. "Took us forever, you know. Knifework is one thing, but knifework on a canvas that struggles and screams? Harder than it looks, I'll tell you that—" 

Janus lurches forward, snarling, but Wrath holds him firm. 

"Now, now," Malice admonishes. "Patience, Dee-Dee, no need to lose your temper. You'll get your turn." 

"If you think I'll play your sick little game—" 

"Oh, please." Malice strolls toward Janus, chuckling. Dread pools in Virgil's stomach. 

"I don't  _ think _ you'll play along," Mal says. He grips Janus's chin, tilts his face upward. Forces him to meet his eyes. "I  _ know _ you will." 

He leans closer. Nose-to-nose. Virgil would cringe back, would look away; Janus meets Malice's eyes, unflinching. 

"You won't have a choice," Malice says. 

And what the everloving  _ fuck _ does that mean? 

Mal lets go of Janus. Steps back, drops his hands into his pockets. "Hubris, would you do the honors?" he says, waving a hand, and Hubris grins, quickly taking Mal's place. 

"Gladly," he says, and he cups Janus's face in both hands and closes his eyes. 

The force of Janus's fear hits Virgil like a brick, and his heart pounds harder, faster, because he doesn't know what's about to happen but if Janus is scared then it must be bad. It must be really, really bad. 

And then just like that the fear is gone. 

Virgil blinks. 

Hubris steps back, too. Stands beside Malice, leans against the wall. Crosses his arms and watches. The pose he assumes is casual, even careless, but there's an air of concentration about him. A furrow to his brow. 

Janus stares at the spot where Hubris just stood. 

Then he stands taller. Straightens his shoulders, turns to face Virgil. His eyes are empty. 

Wrath lets go, and Janus strides toward him, not a beat missed. He comes to a halt in front of Virgil, looks him up and down just as Malice did earlier. Void of all emotion. 

That's not Janus, Virgil's brain is screaming. That's not Janus—Janus is snarling and protective, Janus bandaged his stab wound two weeks ago with gentle hands, and last month when Wrath hurt Virgil past the point of patching-up, Janus gave him painkillers and sat with him until the end. 

"Oh," Malice says, stepping forward. "You'll need this." He presses the knife into Janus's hand. 

Janus takes it, holds it tight, and Virgil understands. 

* * *

He doesn't know how long it's been. 

Hours, he thinks, but pain has a way of distorting time. Cut after cut after cut, and all the while Janus has stared at him with blank yellow eyes, not the faintest flicker of emotion. 

"Dee,  _ please," _ Virgil begged after the first wound, after the second, after the third.  _ "Please. _ This isn't you, please,  _ p-"  _

He cut himself off with a scream. Didn't have any breath left to beg, after that. 

"A word," Malice suggested at one point. 

"Like what?" Hubris muttered, eyes fixed on Janus. 

Malice thought for a moment, then said, "Worthless." And Hubris nodded, and so Janus carved worthlessness right into Virgil, just below the "H." 

And then Malice said, "How about another word. For his other arm," and Virgil remembered that Malice's  _ name _ was cut into his  _ arm, _ and he prayed to god they'd kill him at the end of this. 

"I've got one," said Hubris. "Nothing." 

And so Janus has now carved N, O, and T into Virgil's right arm, and he's working on the H. He scores each line three times over. Scores them hard and slow, not a hint of mercy, a stranger wearing Janus's face. (It's something of an ironic thought.) 

His scales are flecked with blood. With  _ Virgil's _ blood. 

(Virgil has had this nightmare before. Too many times to count.) 

Janus's eyes flick to the side. He shifts the knife. Next letter, then. He cuts a straight line down, the shape of an I, short and simple. 

"Boo," Malice says. "Not wide enough. I can barely see it." 

Virgil sucks in a sharp breath. No, he thinks. No, please, god, no, not again— 

Slowly, deliberately, Janus raised his index finger and drives it into the wound. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper. Virgil screams, throwing his head back, blinded by pain. Janus drags his finger all the way down the length of the letter, and Virgil screams and  _ screams, _ and when Janus finally pulls away his hand is red and slick. 

Virgil gasps for air, staring up at the ceiling. His ears are ringing, his vision fading back in slowly. 

Please, he thinks. Please. Janus, please. 

Hubris mutters something, and Malice responds with a laugh, shoving his shoulder. Hubris stumbles. Janus's hand falters. Virgil's eyes follow the motion, rabbit-quick. 

"Please," he chokes through bloody lips, voice cracking, hardly above a whisper.  _ "Janus, please."  _

The knife clatters to the ground and falls still. 

Janus stares at Virgil, open-mouthed, eyes shining—horrified, for once in his life lost for words— 

Hope flutters in Virgil's chest. 

"Well?" Malice prompts. Always so impatient. "Pick it up. You're almost done now, two more letters." 

No, Virgil thinks. No, no, no, Dee, please, no. 

Janus bends down. Slow and mechanical. His fingers close around the weapon, and Virgil squeezes his eyes shut, trying to prepare himself to face the pain again. Even if Janus has broken free of Hubris's control—even if he's aware enough now to know exactly what he's doing, there's no way— 

Except yes there is. Janus whirls around and stabs Malice through the throat. 

Shock freezes Wrath and Hubris in place. Janus turns back around, and Virgil flinches as two gloved hands grab his own. The shackles fall slack and Virgil collapses, but in the next moment everything disappears, and he hits the floor in Janus's room instead. 

_ "Virgil," _ Janus breathes. 

And that's—it. Just like that, they're out. It's over. 

(For today, thinks another part of him. Because it's never really over, is it?) 

And then there are hands on him again, turning him onto his back, fluttering over his wounds. "Virgil, oh god," says Janus, and he is so real right now, emotions so raw and honest, and Virgil isn't sure what to do with that. Janus touches his arm and Virgil flinches back  _ hard, _ and Janus looks like he might break. 

"I'm so  _ sorry," _ he whispers. 

Virgil just stares. 

This doesn't—happen. No one apologizes down here. Janus is acting like a light side, saying things the way Patton or Roman might say them. He's acting like— 

Okay, Virgil's not sure what he's acting like but it's sure as hell not normal. 

Janus seems to mistake his shock for disbelief. "I  _ am," _ he stresses. "Virgil, I didn't know Hubris could even  _ do _ that. I would never have—" 

"I know," Virgil says, voice still hoarse from screaming, and now it's Janus who's left to stare. 

Virgil pushes himself off the floor, arms trembling beneath his weight. He manages to sit up, hugs his arms close to his bare chest though the pain makes him hiss. God, he misses his hoodie. Once he's regained some semblance of strength, he'll call it back from Mal's room, stitch new patches where it was cut from his body. 

"I didn't flinch cause I'm  _ scared _ of you," Virgil says. Which, okay. Kind of a lie, and Janus will be able to tell, but that's just cause Virgil's scared of everyone—reason aside. "I mean, I don't actually think you'll hurt me," he amends, and that at least rings true. Janus doesn't hurt him. 

(He might not be worth much to Janus, might not be loved at all, but Janus never hurts him.) 

"I won't," Janus says. Another truth. He hasn't told one lie yet. 

He must've been aware. He must've seen what was happening, heard Virgil's screams, felt skin break beneath his blade. A prisoner in his own mind. He's so viscerally shaken— so real right now, so goddamn honest—he must've been conscious. 

They sit here in this awful, painful silence for minutes more—Virgil blinking away images of blank yellow eyes, of a bloody knife that flashes red and silver; Janus with fluttering hands, unsure what to do and afraid to even try. 

Soon Virgil will try to stand. Janus will rush to help, and Virgil will pull away, will flinch back with eyes squeezed shut and blink them open to find himself in his own room. He'll collapse onto his bed and dream of a snake that cuts him open with a smile. Janus will wallow in guilt for a day or so, but come morning they'll be back to normal, pretending nothing ever happened, neither able to face reality. 

Virgil thinks about that, and his heart aches, and he realizes he doesn't want it. 

So he clears his throat and says, "You saved me." 

He hardly hears his own voice, it's so quiet. But Janus looks up, red-eyed, and Virgil thinks of a broken wall, an open door. 

"You got us both out," Virgil says, a little stronger this time, and Janus laughs—a bitter, broken sound. 

"After I hurt you," he says. "So  _ noble _ of me, to carve slander into your skin. A  _ true-blooded hero."  _

"You always save me," Virgil insists, shuffling forward, because it's true. Because no one else ever does. Because Virgil doesn't know what to call it, and he knows it can't be love, but Janus always saves him and that means something. 

Malice has hurt Virgil all their lives. Janus has hurt him once, and it's left him shaken open, left him crying. 

That  _ means _ something. 

So Virgil shuffles closer, and Janus stares, eyes wet with tears. Virgil rests a hand on his forearm, and Janus hesitates for just a moment before pulling him in close. 

He falls into the embrace without a second thought. Janus's clothes chafe against his torn-up skin, but he can't bring himself to care, not when six arms are all holding him tight, keeping him safe. 

(Janus does love Virgil. Loves him like a child or a brother or a best friend or something in between, loves him so hard it almost hurts. Sometimes, when the world is at its worst, he thinks that loving Virgil might be the truest thing about him. 

Virgil won't know that for a long time yet.) 

. 

. 

. 

**Author's Note:**

> this version of thomas's mind is heavily inspired by odiagahara's series [tales from the dark side,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523426) so if you liked this, you should definitely check out all of their works! 
> 
> i love comments, and i'd be so happy if you'd leave me one <3 
> 
> also my tumblr is [@extraordinarycorn](extraordinarycorn.tumblr.com) if you'd like to come yell at me there!!


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